I. Step where I step,he said, quick,quiet over oak root.The hushed path roseto meet him.By footfall and rifle glint,rustle of hoofand pulp of blood,he led me deepwhere the gut-shot buckhad made its briary bed.Even from the shiningback of his scalp,I knew his face,shame-shadowedat his own poor aim,at the animal’s paingrown shadow-longwith the fall of dusk.Three times we nearedthe deer, and eachit heard our ragged breathand stood and lumberedbeyond sight.Come swamp’s edgehe turned skyward.Gun on his back,he climbed the bur oak.His eyes hungeredover earthand found no sign.I watched from below.He looked past light,past knowing.How the buckwould die: slowand alone in the mouthof the woods.The many waysit would become.Scarlet waxingthe moon of a tick.Blackberry sheen of a buzzard’s coat. II.Heat pearled our skinas we followedup the mountain’s face.His idea, to tie our coatsto the trunks of trees.The clumsy knotsof their armsa gift, an embrace.Sophie so small thatonly a sapling would do.We moved on,lightened, cooled.The air thinnedand the land went blue.How good it felt,to toil awhile in sunfor the sightof a rippling valley.It was Christmas.Earth was new.Then dusk.Then darknesslike a minnow net.Then us, its catch.Then the pathswallowed by brush.Then, again,the needling cold.Our arms were bare.We did not knowhe was afraid.Even as he climbedthe white pineto search for somesign of home.Even as we shiveredon the earth below.Look how he swaysin the treetop,we thought.See how his headbrushes the sky.